silently the senses abandon their defenses
by TaoGrace
Summary: Elide gets cold at night.


It's cold. At night, the little tent Molly and the troupe had put at her - their - disposal is cold and damp, turning so right after the summer sun's last rays hide behind the hills and forests on the horizon.

Elide twists and turns, trying to settle in comfortable position, the bedroll doing nothing much to warm her bones, or to keep the rocks and grass on the ground from digging into her sides. The slight chill combined with the dampness of the earth more often than not mean that she's in for a night of throbbing ankles and stiff bones. Oh, joy.

The tent is far too small for a fire and Elide only has so many layers to keep warm. Her mangled ankle throbs in protest at her wriggling.

It's never quite so cold when Lorcan is there, Elide ponders idly; he occupies the space in a way she never could, and for all his brutish and mean-spirited bravado, the man is a furnace and he makes the nights a little more bearable.

He's taken to coming to bed after she falls asleep and leaving before she wakes up in the morning. She wonders if Fae do not need quite as much sleep as humans do.

A part of her is glad that he does not bother her any more than necessary for their ruse, she is truly glad, she thinks while clutching the thin sheet closer around herself, trying to burrow her face more thoroughly in the supposed pillow.

Another part, a small voice in the back of her mind, whispers that she's always wanted to have someone to trust, she's wanted to have someone trust her in return. She'd like to be able to close her eyes at night and never fear, never fall asleep clutching the little throwing knife she'd nicked from the performers' set, which currently resides underneath her makeshift pillow; never go sleeping with an eye kept open, just ready to jump at any sound, any possible danger.

Elide does not remember what it's like to not be aware of the danger, afraid the very echoes of steps on stone floors.

But there are no stone floors here. No grates or walls, either.

There is only the rippling grass against the soles of leather boots, the moan of howling gust of wind in the open sky and the crackling of small fires in the night. Elide forces her muscles to relax.

She sometimes thinks that trust is yet possible, except no, not really, not when she'd rather eat glass than tell anyone about the tower in Perranth and Morath and the fear crawling down her spine when anyone mentions Terrasen; the fear that there'll be no one to receive her home, that she'll be nothing more than another camp follower, useless and left to be discarded at the first turn.

And it doesn't do to dwell on such things, it really doesn't. Elide seldomly lets herself float in the state of unease that lies between sleep and awakening, rarely lets herself feel the fear that has accompanied her for so long.

Not since the witches, though. Since escaping Morath, she's painted herself with conviction and cunning, used up every drop of attention and every memory and slight of hand in her possesion. It's been hard, so hard, and Elide can't decide which it is: is she hiding the little girl behind a mask of strength, or has the bitterness, the anger required to turn people's minds to her favour and against themselves always been there?

Always lying in wait, prowling its cage like the wicked beast she sometimes fancies herself to be.

Her train of thought is interrupted by the tent flap opening, canvas flipping in the night breeze. A shiver comes up her spine, making her shoulders tremble as Lorcan closes the tent behind him.

The demi-fae does not fit inside this tent, Elide knows. He can't make more than a step in each direction, can't stand with his back or shoulders straight for fear of raising the entire thing off its hinges, tearing the flimsy fabric, or simply remaining with his head outside.

She fights the urge to turn around to him as he sits on the ground and takes off his boots, slips his doublet from around his broad shoulders and throws it in a corner of the tent.

Dressed in nothing more than his undershirt - the last one he owns, most likely, after the bartering he's done in the previous days - and his trousers, he lays on the ground, not bothering to address her in any way.

Elide is far too tired to process her level of awareness in regard to her supposed husband. Not that he'd much played the part any more, not since the attack. The thought of it strikes a chord deep in her gut, the tightening near her heart urging her to close around herself; pull her knees close to her chest and hide her head under the bedsheets, much like she'd done long, long ago, to no avail.

"What?" a gruff word in a tone settled somewhere between question and command, Lorcan having been no doubt aware that she wasn't sleeping. The man could count her heartbeats and the silences between them, Elide chastises herself, of-bloody-course he could tell whether she was sleeping or not.

"Nothing," she says, her voice surprisingly clear. She doesn't need to see his face to know that his eyebrow is raised in mock challenge. And mild annoyance.

Elide huffs and turns around, spotting the outline of his face in the darkness of their tent. She scowls at him half-heartedly, knowing he could see her better than she does.

"What?" he asks again, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He is barely a few steps away, sprawled on the mottled ground. There is no way to step around him towards the tent flap. Gods, he could nearly keep his legs outside.

The mental image of his toes hanging from the tent entrance makes Elide snort. What lack of sleep does to people.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks suddenly, some part of her brain seemingly up to something. Her tone would almost be menancing. Almost, if only she hadn't yawned the last word out.

"Why?" he begins, turning on his side towards her. "Feeling generous with the extra blanket?"

"I was just asking. Basic consideration," she feels the need to add, "some people do have that, you know?"

A snort. "Who told you that?" a slash of a grin that seemed made to gobble men up.

Elide angles her eyebrows at him in a way that should translate to - really? - but who knows what her valiant husband makes of it, so she better leaves it off at that, she decides while rubbing at her eyes.

"Are you?"

A sharp twist of her head in his direction. "What?"

"Cold. Are you cold, Elide?"

He's taunting her. Gods. The bastard. The pause between her reaction and her opening her mouth to respond accordingly tells him everything he needs to know, though.

"I don't have blankets to give you," he replies. Part of it is smugness, the other something she has no intention of desciphering. Not this late.

"I don't need blankets," she huffs, indignately. And if she does need blankets, it's none of his business. It's not her fault her limbs become ice cold at night. She hasn't had the luxury of a proper comforter since before Morath.

"Then?" Is it physically impossible for him to shut up, for once?

She almost stutters, the idea ridiculous, "Just..." Anneith save her, "ugh. Just come a little closer."

He startles then, and looks at her. "Closer?" he asks, incredulity etched deeply in the word.

"Yes. Closer. You are warm," with that, anger at her weakness makes her flush and she turns her back to him before he can catch a glimpse of her expression.

He seems to ponder it for a while. For long enough that Elide starts wondering if he's heard her at all, but then he scoots over, indeed coming closer to her.

The change in temperature was already noticeable, and Elide curls in on herself, before she murmurs, "Closer," her thoughts louder than her voice.

For a moment, she thinks he'll not comply, but then a strong arm wraps around her, pulling her against the hard plains of his chest. That, and Lorcan's breath on the back of her neck, make the hair stand up on her arms, goose pimples erupt on her skin.

Gods above, the man is a furnace. A living, breathing furnace, she tells herself as warmth floods her, starting from where his arm rests over her waist, the two shirts she wears being a useless barrier against the heat radiating off him, and going all the way to her her toes and fingertips, all the way to the roots of her hair.

He's pulled her close enough, but not flush against him, and for that she's thankful.

Elide doesn't want to think about what they look like, her almost touching his chest, curled like a kitten in the bedroll, a rough hand splayed in the folds of her shirt, under her breasts, but above her belly.

Lorcan shifts for a bit at her back, for a second seeming almost fidgety, in a way he's never been around her before. His other arm sneaks underneath her head, pillowing it and bringing her closer to him.

Through the haze that settled over her mind, a haze that tastes like candlelight and earthen blooms, and roots in the autumn dusk, Elide realises that, as near to him as she is, he must be getting a mouthful of her hair, so she cranes her neck and turns her head to look at him.

"Hm?" he questions her look, the hum reverbrating through his chest and her back, making her toes tingle and curl. That might be the look in his eyes, too, the way they seem almost molten and soft, but she doesn't pay them too much attention.

Elide notes blankly that her head barely reaches the crook of his neck, never mind that some strands of hair do curl around his chin. In the shadows, it's hard to tell whose hair it is.

She shakes her head in answer, bringing her hands up and combing her fingers through her hair, laying the messy locks over her shoulder. Elide feels pleasantly fuzzy, and she whispers "Nothing," but then adds on second thought, "Sleep," as she tangles her feet with his, rests her hands over his forearms and falls asleep in a cocoon of warmth.

* * *

 **A/N. Elide and Lorcan are eating away my soul. ahhh, lovely. the title is a verse from phantom, "the music of the night", more precisely.**

 **cheers :D**


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